


even the wrong words seem to rhyme

by eleadore



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Non AU, Sexswap, casual sexism, heavily gendered language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:05:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleadore/pseuds/eleadore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis keeps waking up as a girl. He handles it well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	even the wrong words seem to rhyme

**Author's Note:**

> if you looked up self-indulgent in the dictionary i guess you'd find the definition of self-indulgent. also thanks to [maggie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marguerite_26/pseuds/marguerite_26), who continues to put up with me for whatever sinister reasons.
> 
> eta - i realize this is sexswap instead of genderswap! and this is tagged w/ casual sexism but i want to emphasize that it's a p big part of the fic and heavily connected to the language used, so tread carefully if that's not your thing. may also contain elements of dubcon!

When it happens for the third time—when Louis realizes it’s going to _keep_ happening—he locks himself in the bathroom and cries for hours before he calls his mum. 

She doesn’t recognize the sound of his voice.

* * *

It’s mostly thanks to their preoccupation with sex that they manage to figure it out. Boys will be boys, after all, apart from when they wake up as girls.

“Well, that’s not so bad,” Liam says one such morning, so reasonably Louis wants to stab him. “I mean, you can turn back whenever you want. That’s kind of cool, innit? Like a superpower.”

Harry looks up from his mobile and smirks. “Code name: Pussy Galore.”

Louis bares his teeth at him, but Liam frowns. “No,” he says slowly, drawing it out. “That’s from Bond.” 

“Missing the point, Payno.” 

Louis tunes them out in favour of picking at his nails. They’re thinner when he’s a girl, split easily under his teeth, and he’s worried at the cuticle until he’s bleeding by the time Zayn catches his wrist and gently tugs his hand away from his mouth. 

“Cut it out,” he says, wrinkling his nose like it’s gross, but he holds Louis’ hand under the table. 

“I’m okay,” Louis mumbles, because he won’t ask. “You heard the man. It’s a fucking superpower.” 

“Pretty useless one,” Zayn says under his breath, and he sounds so disgruntled that Louis laughs. It’s loud enough that everyone turns to look at him, and for a second it’s as if they’ve never seen him before, something startled in the familiar lines of their faces. Louis’ laughter dies abruptly.

Niall clears his throat and waves a bit of ham in his direction. “Well, with great power, and all that. Wank responsibly, now.”

“Ha,” Louis says, and decides that once he gets it back, he’s never touching his dick again.

* * *

It’s not as difficult as he expects it to be. There are moments, at first, when his cock still fattens up like it’s forgotten what happens when he comes: in the shower post show, hot water beating down his aching back, the steam making it hard to breathe, or—in his bunk, late at night, when sleep’s the farthest thing from his mind, or—early morning, when Harry gets back on the bus littered with love bites and smelling like sex, yeah, sometimes Louis has his hand down his pants before he remembers.

But he always remembers. He can’t forget, not when he spent four hours trying to make himself come as a girl that one time, close to tears because they had a show the next day, or—when he rubbed one off riding Liam’s thigh on accident, because his girl body has a mind of its own and doesn’t discriminate between potential sources of friction, or—when he stole Niall’s sonic toothbrush to use as a vibrator because his fingers weren’t enough, or—whenever he thinks about the way the lads look at him in that body, like he’s a stranger. Unknown. 

After a while, he doesn’t even have to try. Weeks go by and his dick stays intact; if anyone figures out he hasn’t gotten off in just as long, they don’t mention it, and it’s fine.

Everything’s fine.

* * *

They’re all sat in the hotel suite after the show, shower wet and riding the last dregs of adrenaline. Zayn crashed as soon as he got out of the bathroom, curled up on the sofa with one of those tiny, useless towels over his eyes, and Louis wishes sleep came as easily to him, because after three shows in a row he could fucking use it, but he’s all—jittery, static buzzing under his skin. He has a headache, but it hurts worse to close his eyes, so he roots around for the Xbox instead.

“I’m in,” Niall says, stuffing a few crisps in his mouth and wiping his hands on his shirt before grabbing the controller. Liam shakes his head no, settling back into the cushions with Zayn’s feet in his lap, and Louis doesn’t bother asking Harry, who’s been absorbed in his phone since he came in.

A year ago, Louis wouldn’t have thought twice before snatching it out of his hand and tossing it aside, clambering up onto his lap and tickling him until he begged for mercy, red faced and teary-eyed from laughing so hard. These days, he doesn’t even have to bite his tongue around the _what’s so fucking fascinating?_

Mostly.

His vision goes blurry around fifteen minutes into the game, and there’s this throbbing weight at his temples that makes it difficult to concentrate, but Louis is so wound up that shooting at whatever’s in his line of sight is the only thing that appeals. He’s sitting on the floor next to Niall and Harry’s on the couch behind him, close enough that Louis would only have to lean back a little to nudge his head against his arm; so close he can’t help but hear the slow rumble of his voice, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it. 

“You’d be surprised,” Harry’s saying, “how much you can get away with if you’re nice about it.” 

“ _You_ can,” Liam says, “’s a bit harder for the rest of us.”

“Harder,” Niall sniggers, and Louis resist the urge to cuff him until he starts paying attention to the game. He can’t remember when they started talking, but he knows where the conversation is headed—where it always is, on nights like this—and he doesn’t have the patience for it, can’t bring himself to join in ribbing Liam when his head feels like it’s going to split open and every single muscle in his body is tense, like he’s bracing for a hit. He wants to sleep. He wants to crawl into bed and melt into the mattress, out before his head hits the pillow. 

He wants Harry to shut the fuck up, so of course, he continues, “Doesn’t hurt to ask, does it. Worst they can do is say no.” 

“What if they say yes,” Liam muses, “but it’s just because I want to? What if they don’t, like—like it?”

“They like it,” Harry says, slurring the way he does when he’s tired, or turned on, or both. Louis thumbs viciously at his controller and doesn’t wonder which it is this time. “Unless you go in dry, come on, Liam.”

“I don’t know,” Liam says, sounding unconvinced, and Niall reaches out to thump him on the shin before leaning into Louis, knocking their shoulders together.

“Why’re you asking Harry when you can ask the girl?” He laughs when Louis flips him off. “Whaddya say, Tommo? D’you reckon you’d like it up the bum?” 

“Reckon I’d like it if you’d go fuck yourself,” Louis says shortly. It’s not the first time the lads have teased him about it and it won’t be the last; Louis supposes it’s easier to have a laugh if you’re not the one terrified of losing your dick every time you wank, but what he could’ve waved off any other night is dancing on his nerves now, making the back of his neck prickle with heat. 

“That’s fair,” Niall says happily, and out of the corner of his eye Louis can see Liam drop his head back on the sofa and make a face at the ceiling. 

“Seems like a lot of work, though,” Liam says, “all that prep and everything.” 

“Mm,” Harry says, and there’s a slick sound, as if he’s licked his lips. “Not if she’s wet enough. If you fuck her cunt first—”

“ _Neil,_ ” Louis snaps, loud enough to cut Harry off, “are you going to play the fucking game or not? You’re bloody useless, the fucking AI’s showing you up.”

“Sorry, mate,” Niall says. “Liam’s having a proper crisis, it’s distracting.” He shakes the controller out, like that’s going to make a difference, before grinning and poking Louis in the side. “You should just let him have a go at you, solve the mystery for him.”

“That’s funny,” Louis says, and he sounds different even to his own ears, mean in a way he’s never been to Niall. “You know what’s funnier? How I’m the one who ended up with a cunt, but it’s you who’s acting like one.”

Niall falters, the smile freezing on his face, and there’s a moment where Louis could raise his eyebrows, or elbow him, or grin to show he’s joking, and it’d be fine. Niall would laugh it off because that’s what Niall does, no matter how shitty someone’s been to him, and it’d be like nothing happened. But Louis’ face is burning, and there’s this awful pressure behind his eyes. He’s tired and angry, feels like he’s never been anything else, and he can’t fucking stand the thought of becoming the butt of one more joke. 

The controller bounces off Niall’s knee when Louis throws it down. 

“I’m going to bed,” he says, and doesn’t wait for a response before getting up. His legs have fallen asleep from being crossed for so long, but he grits his teeth through it because it’s not as if he can wait for the pins and needles to die down now, not with all eyes on him, wide with surprise. 

He fucking hates it when they look at him like that. It’s been over a month, and he’s not any closer to getting used to it; coming to terms with the fact that it might never go away didn’t make it any easier to handle and knowing the lads don’t mean anything by it doesn’t make it any easier to listen to. He doesn’t know if it’s just for his benefit, or if they talk about him when he’s not there, too—about his high, thin voice and his wide hips and his _cunt_ —but the thought of it plagues him constantly, makes his eyes sting and throat close up. He doesn’t know why he can’t just fucking deal. He doesn’t know why it had to be him. 

He doesn’t expect anyone to follow him out, much less Harry, but he’s almost glad when he hears the familiar footfalls, the steady breathing at his back while he fumbles with his keycard. He’s feeling vicious, and Harry makes a good target.

“What’s wrong with you?” is the first thing Harry says, and Louis whirls on him. 

“Take a fucking guess.” 

Harry’s mouth twists as he shrugs. “That time of the month?”

Louis could hit him. For a second, he thinks he actually might; his hands curl into fists and his shoulders fall back, but then Harry steps closer and cups his face, digs his thumbs into Louis’ temples, where his headache throbs the hardest. It hurts, and Louis gasps a little even as he sways into him. 

“Close your eyes,” Harry says, and Louis stares up at him rebelliously until Harry’s thumbs smooth over his eyebrows, sweep back to kiss the corners of his eyes. His hands are cold on Louis’ cheeks, gentle when he pinches the bridge of his nose, and he smells like the complimentary hotel shampoo. Pulling away from him takes more effort than Louis cares to think about.

“That’s not going to help,” he lies, and Harry’s hands fall back to his sides. Louis wonders where he’s left his phone, and tells himself he doesn’t care.

“Maybe not,” Harry agrees easily, “but getting your rocks off might.”

“I’d feel a lot better if you just fucked off, actually,” Louis says, and tries to keep his voice steady. It’s useless to yell at Harry, because he never yells back, maintains that lazy drawl even when Louis is red-faced and close to choking the life out of him. He always sounds like he’s a bit bored with the drama, above it all, and it’s almost as infuriating as the look he’s leveling at Louis right now. 

“It’s been two weeks,” he says. “Did you think we wouldn’t notice?”

He hadn’t, but of course the lads would turn observant once pussy entered the picture. “Thought you’d mind your own business.” 

“That was stupid of you,” Harry tells him, and steps in close before fitting a hand between Louis’ legs. Louis meets his eyes and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from gasping when Harry cups him, squeezes his soft prick just a little. “Fuck, you have to be full up. How aren’t you hard all the time?”

“I can’t,” Louis starts, and regrets it when Harry’s eyes sharpen and drop to his mouth. He’s palming him now, and Louis rises up on his toes to escape the rough, insistent pressure, but Harry moves with him, feels him up through his trackies like they’re kids again, desperate, dying to touch each other. Louis isn’t wearing any pants, and the sweats are so threadbare he can feel each individual stroke of Harry’s fingers against his balls, and it makes his stomach cramp with want, sudden and terrible. 

Harry fits an arm around his waist and pulls him back in when Louis tries to wrench away. “Let me try,” he says, mouth against the shell of Louis’ ear while he works at him. “I used to be quite good at making you hard.” 

“You used to be a lot of things,” Louis says, and Harry stills before turning his head and sliding their mouths together. Louis’ heart thumps once, hard, and there’s violence in the ricochet. “Fuck. Don’t.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and his lips are red, slick when he wets them with his tongue, “all right. Just let me—we’re free tomorrow, you could—let me get you off.”

Getting off with Harry has never been the problem; it’s everything else that ties Louis up in knots. He tries to get the words out, but Harry’s hand is still caught between his legs, and Louis realizes with a jolt that the heel of his hand would ride up right against his clit, if Louis had one. His thighs clench on instinct, and he makes a noise, low in his throat, that Harry takes for assent. Maybe it is.

“Gonna blow you,” he says, and Louis flushes with heat. “Get on the bed.” 

The last time they fell into bed with each other, Harry had been so smashed he could barely talk. He tasted like vodka and skittles and burst into laughter every time Louis kissed him. Louis doesn’t think he even remembers. “No.” 

Harry pulls back to look at him, and whatever he reads on Louis’ face makes him shrug. 

“Okay,” he says, and he sounds so unaffected that Louis’ throat closes up. Then he drops to his knees and all the breath leaves Louis’ body like it’s been punched out of him.

“Harry,” he tries to say, but it comes out as this awful, needy whimper. Harry’s mouth on him is hot enough to make Louis shiver, and he has to grab at his shoulders when his knees go weak. He’s not hard yet, but Harry’s tonguing his cock through his sweats and Louis can feel the slow pulse of arousal twist through the arches of his feet, curl his toes. With it comes cold sweat at the thought of what he’ll have to deal with in the morning, but it’s been too long and Harry’s gripping the backs of his thighs and nuzzling into his crotch so sweetly Louis can’t hold on to the fear. 

He doesn’t resist when Harry walks him to the bed and strips off the duvet before tossing him on it. The sheets are soft under his palms and Louis kneads at them a little helplessly, bunches them in his fists as Harry tugs his sweats down and off. It’s strange to be soft when Harry’s looking at him like that, hunger in the blown out mess of his eyes, and Louis is tempted, absurdly, to tug the hem of his shirt down and cover himself. It’s the stupidest impulse he’s had all night, but he can’t quite overcome it, not even when Harry grabs him by the ankles and yanks him down the bed, spreads his legs for him. 

Louis drops his head back and closes his eyes when Harry shoulders in between. He still has all of his clothes on, the fabric of his band tee soft and worn where it rucks up against the inside of Louis’ thighs, and Louis doesn’t know why it’s this that makes his hips pump up, but it does. Harry runs both hands up his thighs and pins him down, digs his nails in just enough to make Louis twitch. 

“Come on,” Harry says, sucking wet, open mouthed kisses into Louis’ thighs, his balls, the base of his still soft cock. He brings a hand up to tug at the foreskin, a little too rough, and Louis turns his head to bite at the pillow. He’s overheated, and sweat is pooling at the small of his back, sticking his shirt to his skin, but the hum of the air conditioner is loud and the sheets are cool against his burning face. He feels like there are stitches snapping all over his body, little shocks of sensation that make him gasp. 

“C’mon, love,” Harry’s saying, breathing hot over the head of Louis’ cock, licking just with the tip of his tongue, teasing. “I already know how easy you are, won’t do you any good to make me work for it now.”

Louis knows it doesn’t mean anything, that it’s just a consequence of Harry’s filthy fucking mouth, but it’s true. He is easy. He’s always been easy when it comes to Harry, and he’s terrified he always will be, like it’s a part of him now as intrinsic as the colour of his eyes, his palm lines. Things that’ll stay the same, no matter who he wakes up as.

And when his cock finally fattens up in Harry’s mouth like the sweetest _fuck you,_ Louis has to muffle his laugh into the pillow, because what else can he do. What the fuck else can he do. 

“Babe,” Harry murmurs, sounding pleased, and bites little kisses along the jut of Louis’ hip bones before sucking his cock down in earnest. Louis claws at the sheets to keep from fisting his hands in his hair because Harry’s making a fucking mess of it, so sloppy and wet he has to slurp around Louis’ cock every time he comes up for a breath. One of his big hands is cupping Louis’ balls, rolling them gently in his palm, and when Louis’ hips snap up his fingers slip and catch against his hole. Louis freezes, tenses up before he can remember why he shouldn’t.

Harry makes a sound and does it again, rubs gently at his rim until Louis can’t help but kick out. Harry’s voice is wrecked when he speaks, wet and hoarse. “You want me to?”

Louis swallows around a whine and makes himself say, “No.”

“I want to,” Harry confesses, his breath coming hot and unsteady where it hits Louis’ hip. “You get so—you’re so sensitive.” His finger only strokes a little, lightly, but just the threat of penetration is enough to make Louis’ insides seize, and he almost can’t hear Harry over the blood pounding in his ears. Wishes he couldn’t, when Harry says, “you’d like it as a girl, too. Getting your arse played with.”

“Shut up,” Louis says, but Harry’s voice keeps sounding in his head, rough and nasty. _Not if she’s wet enough. If you fuck her cunt first—_

“You’d like getting fucked,” Harry says, and he sounds so certain, so fucking sure of himself, that Louis has to lever himself up on his elbows and kick him, hard enough to make him fall back.

 _”Shut up.”_

His voice cracks on the word, and Harry grabs his foot before he can kick him again, uses the leverage to fold Louis’ leg up until his knee hits his chest and he’s spread open, bare. His hair’s falling into his eyes and his mouth is wet, slick with spit all the way down to his chin, except with the way he’s kneeling between Louis’ legs, it doesn’t look like spit. Louis squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to picture it, tries not to feel it echo somewhere in his other, absent body. Fails. 

“Look at me,” Harry says, squeezing Louis’ ankle hard enough to hurt. He pumps Louis’ cock with his other hand, fast and mean, and then draws his hand away entirely. When Louis snaps his eyes open he’s looking at him—just looking, in that quiet, unblinking way of his—and when he says, “you’re lovely,” Louis _feels_ it. 

There isn’t enough air in the room. Louis thinks he might come apart if he comes at all, just splinter into tiny little pieces, cut up with want.

“Lovely,” Harry says again, quieter, and holds Louis’ gaze as he strokes his cock with the tip of his finger. “’s your cunt as lovely as your—” and Louis slaps his hand over Harry’s mouth just as he starts to come, in long, wrenching pulls that tear sobs from his throat. It feels like it’s never going to end, and he’s woozy by the time it does, so out of it he doesn’t even notice Harry curling a hand around his wrist, kissing his palm.

“Fuck,” Louis gasps, and then, “don’t,” when Harry cups a hand over his spent, oversensitive cock, but Harry just holds him, so carefully Louis wants to wrench away and pull him close, hit him and kiss him. 

He does neither of those things. He doesn’t move at all, other than to close his eyes, but Harry curls up over him anyway, and says, “s’all right,” and, “I’ve got you.” 

He’s always had him, Louis thinks, and then stops thinking altogether.

* * *

He wakes up shivering. 

Judging by the watery sunlight filtering through the windows, there are still hours before he has to be up. It’s an off day, so technically he doesn’t _have_ to do anything at all, could laze about in bed until bus call, but the hotel they’re in is posh and private, and they’d made plans to check out the bar and club and huge, indoor pool. 

Louis looks down at his changed body and thinks that might prove difficult, now. 

Sometime last night his shirt got rucked up under his armpits and stayed that way. His breasts are bare to the freezing air, nipples painfully tight and skin covered in goosebumps all the way down to his thighs. The sheets are caught under his body and the duvet’s still on the floor, so he’s been lying arse-up in the cold like a bleeding idiot for who knows how long. Louis doesn’t want to think about when Harry left, whether he got an eyeful and what of. 

It wouldn’t be anything he hasn’t seen before. The first time it happened Louis had fallen out of his bunk and screamed bloody murder until Paul arrived, looking harassed, and threw a blanket at him before telling him he had to leave. 

“It’s me,” Louis shouted, and kicked him when he kept calling him _Miss_. He still had all of his tattoos, but Paul seemed determined to keep staring at his forehead. “Fucking _look_ at me!” 

“I don’t want to have to call security,” Paul said calmly, and Louis went lightheaded from sheer blind panic until Harry appeared in the doorway, puffy eyed, pillow creases all along the side of his face, and stared at him, this strange girl—red-faced and hysterical and completely fucking starkers—and said, “Louis?”

Apparently, Harry thought he’d been dreaming, which explained why he hadn’t been alarmed in the slightest. Louis can laugh about it now, or pretend to, but the fact is: when Harry’s eyes had swept carelessly over his unfamiliar body, and when they’d locked onto his—when he’d blinked, slow and sleepy, and _recognized_ him, Louis thought he would vomit up his heart from relief. 

The others got a show too, once they’d been rounded up for an emergency meeting that ended with Zayn lit up, Liam incapable of speech, and Niall with his head between his knees. Louis is probably the only one who hasn’t seen himself from every angle, but there’s still something unsettling about the thought of Harry looking at this strange version of Louis as he slept.

He sits up in bed and stares down at his thicker thighs, knobbier knees, _The Rogue_ stamped on oddly delicate ankles. Not much to look at, admittedly, but then maybe that’s what needles; Louis knows Harry likes his women blonde and leggy, when he likes women at all. It’s a stupid thing to get hung up on, because it’s not as if Louis is his ideal man, either—not old enough, or tall enough, or enough of a pretentious radio personality. He’s not Harry’s ideal anything. He’s just _there_ , has been right from the beginning, and that muddles things up, sometimes, confuses them both. 

The sex doesn’t help, and Louis would be cursing himself for giving in last night if he didn’t feel so fucking _good_ : loose and languid and clear headed for the first time in days. There’s still that ball of nerves in his gut, the low grade panic that seems to go with this body like a side of chips, but Louis is almost used to it, by now—or enough, at least, that he no longer allows it to show on his face.

There are little bruises on the insides of his thighs, tender to the touch. Louis runs his fingers over them and shivers; Harry put them there, though he’s never laid a hand on this body. The transference is beyond strange, and Louis can’t quite wrap his head around it. Doesn’t really want to, if it means accepting that he’s not waking up in a new body so much as he is just shifting in his skin. 

“Stop it,” he mutters, and shakes his head to rid it of unwanted thoughts before swinging his legs off the bed. He wobbles, and nearly falls flat on his face, but he’s used to that, too, the sharp sense of displacement he has to work through every morning after. It reminds him of when he was younger and put on his gran’s reading glasses, how it felt like every step he took was one off a ledge, no solid ground to be found. Zayn says it’s because his center of gravity’s changed, even if his height hasn’t, but Louis is more inclined to agree with Niall, who insists he’s just top heavy now.

His tits aren’t _that_ big, but they are—there. Present. Unavoidable. Sensitive, though Louis tries not to think about how his gut clenches every time they brush up against someone’s arm, or how easily his nipples tighten, how sore they get after catching on the fabric of his shirt all day. They’re hard right now, and Louis curls his hands into fists to keep from touching himself, because it’s fucking absurd how sexual this body is, and absolutely galling that he can’t control it. 

There’s no willing arousal away once it settles, so Louis has learned to kill it before it’s born. He stubs his toe on the side table on his way to the loo, which helps, and having to sit down to take a piss does the rest. He’s positively grim by the time he’s brushed his teeth, head down and determined to avoid the mirror, and he could just—go back to bed, stave off being a girl for a few more hours, but the sheets smell like sex and he doesn’t trust himself not to rub one out at the thought of Harry’s head between his thighs. Normally, that would be the goal: get this body off as soon as possible, so he can look forward to waking up with a dick tomorrow, but he’d been doing _so well_ not thinking of Harry every other time that he’s loathe to break his streak now.

Plus, he still has to make up for being a right twat, so he puts on his trackies and creeps out of his room and over to Niall’s. 

Niall doesn’t need apologies, not the way the other boys do. Harry won’t come out of a sulk without a sorry—and a sincere one, no dice if Louis rolls his eyes through it—and Zayn can stay tight-lipped for days after the fact if Louis doesn’t admit he was in the wrong, but Niall treats every morning like a clean slate and doesn’t quite understand the concept of holding grudges. Even so, the first thing Louis says when Niall opens the door, bleary eyed and grumpy at having been woken, is: “Sorry.”

Niall squints at him. “For what?”

He looks like he could go back to sleep standing up if Louis made him wait long enough for a response. Louis sighs. “Are you going to milk it?”

“That was an out,” Niall tells him, and Louis _ohhh_ s like he didn’t know.

“Then I’ll take it.” 

Niall yawns while Louis shoulders his way inside the room, and then climbs into bed without protesting Louis’ claim over the covers. Louis wonders if he thinks anything of the way Louis hikes them up over his chest, or of the space between their bodies where there would be none any other day, but if he does, he doesn’t mention it. 

It’s warmer in his room. Louis watches the morning light creep underneath the curtains and tries not to feel so different, so unlike himself he can’t even roll over and plaster himself to Niall’s back, hook his chin over his shoulder. He wants to say something, can think of a thousand quips that’ll make Niall laugh, but falters at what they’d sound like in this voice. 

His voice doesn’t sound any different to him, is the thing. He—stupidly enough—hadn’t even realized it changed along with everything else until he had to hang up on his mum because he couldn’t breathe through the panic. It’s just one of the many things that’ll set him back as soon as he starts feeling like he’s got a handle on this, and it’s fucked, all of it, but the worst part—

The worst part is how much this body still feels like his own.

* * *

It’s nearly noon by the time the others shuffle in, clad in their underwear and the air of the well-rested. Even Zayn looks alive, after what must be a solid eleven hours of sleep, and Louis meets his lazy smile with one of his own, buckles a little under the cheerful arm Liam throws around his shoulder. 

He doesn’t look at Harry, and Harry doesn’t look at him. 

“Finally,” Niall grumbles from the bed, as if he’s been waiting on them for hours instead of having just woken up. Louis slips back under the covers after letting them in, because not looking at Harry doesn’t keep his body from reacting to his presence, and his white tee won’t do anything to hide the tight, aching points of his nipples. 

It’s all right, because Niall doesn’t bother getting up either, and Zayn stretches out at the foot of the bed in a way that suggests he wouldn’t mind going another eleven hours. That leaves Liam at the dining table, fiddling with the main line, and Harry slumped in the loveseat. 

He’s got his head thrown back and legs spread wide enough that the bulge of his cock is obvious through his briefs. Louis’ hands twitch before he reminds himself he’s not looking, but even then he can’t keep his eyes from flickering back to trace over the line of his throat, his width of his shoulders. His hands. His mouth. 

“All right, what’re we having?” Liam’s voice makes Louis jolt. “Full English, right?” 

“It’s too late for breakfast,” Zayn says, flopping over onto his back. “Just get the tea.”

“Oi.” Niall kicks him. “Speak for yourself. It’s never too late for breakfast.” 

Liam frowns. “Well, fine, but don’t stuff yourself, or you’ll ralph in the pool again.”

“That was one time, and I was _ill._ ”

“We’ve got the pool, then?” Louis says, and tries not to notice the way Liam startles a little at the sound of his voice. Fights the urge to deepen it. “Thought you said they couldn’t hold it off for us.” 

“No, we’ve got it for a few hours, it should be—oh. Um. Unless you don’t want to.” 

Louis smiles thinly. “Why wouldn’t I want to?” 

Liam looks pained and Niall shifts, covers rustling, until Zayn clears his throat and squeezes Louis’ foot.

Harry’s still slumped on the sofa, eyes closed, breathing slow and easy. He isn’t even _looking,_ and Louis hates himself a little for making a big fucking deal out of nothing. The thing is—the thing is, it is a big fucking deal, to him. It’s the exact opposite of nothing, but Liam shouldn’t have to put up with the melodrama borne from his inability to just _get over it._

So he says, “no, it’s fine, I’ll come,” and quirks his mouth in response to Liam’s relieved grin. Says, “it’s fine,” again, quieter, even though no one’s listening. 

* * *

The pool is massive, with a skylight so big it feels like they’re outside, sun beating down right over their heads. There’s a little alcove with a waterfall, and a high diving board they’re explicitly forbidden from using. They’ve got the pool all to themselves, and considering how much time they’ve been spending cooped up on the bus lately, Louis should be thrilled. 

He tries not to let his nerves show. 

Zayn gets comfortable on one of the chaise lounges, book in hand, and as Louis watches the security team fan out, he starts to wonder whether it wouldn’t be a better idea to settle in next to Zayn and pretend he needs more sleep than he’s got. No one would buy it, and he’d look stupid, but no stupider than jumping into the pool fully dressed. He went back to his room to put on a bigger, darker t-shirt over his, and to change his trackies out for boxers, but everyone’s still going to see and know and—fuck, Louis hates being made to look like an idiot. He makes a fool out of himself regularly, but that’s different, because it’s on purpose. It’s a choice. 

He shouldn’t have swiped all that bacon from Niall, because it might be coming back up. He’s stood frozen to the spot while Niall fiddles with his phone and Liam sets out his towel, watches as Harry reaches back and pulls his shirt off. Looks up and catches Louis’ eye.

Louis doesn’t know what Harry sees, and he will never know. Certainly it’s nothing that would inspire the looks Harry used to give him—nothing worth the endless affection and fascination and hero worship. They’re not those people anymore. But whatever it is, it makes Harry falter. Stop. 

Then he puts his shirt back on and jumps into the pool. 

Liam and Niall get it long before Louis does, and they’re both in the water, dressed in their swim trunks and t-shirts and looking like complete knobs by the time Louis comes to the realization that it’s for him. That’s all for him, and right then he is filled with every soppy sentiment they’ve ever thrown at the interviews, every answer they’ve given to, _Do you truly get along? Are you really that close?_

Yes. 

And to the questions no one but Louis has ever asked: _Even now? Even when you’re like this?_

Yes. 

So, really, the only thing left for Louis to do is cannonball. 

The rush of water in his ears doesn’t drown out their yells, and he comes up laughing. Niall’s close enough to cling to, so he does, fits an arm around his neck and hauls them both under, holds them there until Niall kicks him in the shin and wriggles free. He’s cursing by the time Louis surfaces, red-faced and sputtering, batting at the air in front of him and shouting, “fucking hell, why me?” and, “pick on someone your own size!” as he scrambles to hide behind Liam. 

Wet fabric drags Louis down, billows around his waist and swishes uncomfortably between his thighs as he kicks, and he can’t stop grinning. Over Liam’s shoulder he can see the curve of a smile Zayn hides behind his book and he feels buoyant, like even the weight of an anchor couldn’t keep him from floating. 

He doesn’t look at Harry, because he can’t have him seeing what’s written all over his face. Louis is obvious at the best of times, _stupid_ in love, but right now he feels like the raw end of a nerve, vulnerable in a way he’s never been. So he charges Liam instead, and doesn’t complain when Liam catches him around the waist and throws him aside like he weighs nothing. They roughhouse while Harry swims laps, and Louis doesn’t drop underwater to watch him—not for very long, anyway.

They end up diving, and then rope Zayn into judging who can cannonball the best. 

“Disqualified,” he announces, when Harry takes a running leap and flops into the water like a sad sack of potatoes, merciless even in the face of Harry’s pout and _heeeey._ “That was a fucking disgrace. Get out of here.” 

Louis’ face hurts from smiling, even when it becomes obvious Zayn is heavily biased.

“He has great form!” Zayn defends, and Liam looks like he’d preen if Louis weren’t trying to drown him.

“It’s not the fucking Olympics, you twat,” Louis says, between spitting mouthfuls of water at Liam’s face. “You’re just supposed to see who makes the biggest splash.” 

Zayn shrugs, unmoved. “I don’t make the rules, mate.” 

Liam celebrates his victory—unfairly won—by scrambling up on Harry’s shoulders and declaring a chickenfight. He beats his chest and makes stupid ape noises until Harry’s choking on water and Louis can’t breathe from laughing so hard, a different sort of ache in his chest. He meets Niall’s eyes and expects him to crouch, doesn’t even mind the thought, really, but Niall just puts both hands on Louis’ shoulders and says, “don’t you fucking drop me, Tommo,” before pushing him down and swinging a leg over. 

He’s fucking heavy, and together they’re almost a foot shorter than Liam and Harry, but they’re both cheaters, so it’s all right. Louis finds purchase in the shallower end and kicks out at Harry’s feet when he can, since his hands are occupied clutching at Niall, who’s taken to slapping intermittently at Harry’s face in a truly inspired show of foul play. 

“Fuck,” Harry shouts, trying to get out of range, but he’s laughing, eyes bottle green in the sunlight. His hair’s plastered to his forehead and Louis itches to brush it out of his eyes, to curl a hand around the back of his neck and pull him in. He can’t really feel the weight on his shoulders anymore, or the way Niall jostles. He doesn’t flinch from the splash of water, the sting in his eyes, because he’s so caught up in looking—because Harry’s looking back.

They win, though Louis couldn’t tell you how. He joins Niall in crowing over unseating Liam and doesn’t drop him back in the water until Liam tackles him. His eyes keep seeking Harry, hooking on him and wrenching away, sneaking glances the way he did when they were younger, back when that’s all he thought he could do. Harry was rubbish at it—stared for too long and far too intently, and he hasn’t gotten any better. Louis thinks he might have gotten worse, if only because he does it on purpose now, quiet and unblinking, serious, until Louis is flushed.

Heat rides this body differently, settles in strange places. The backs of his knees tingle, and his ears start to burn; his pulse thrums in his fingertips as strongly as it does in his cunt. He clenches his thighs together and it gets worse, so insistent Louis doesn’t think he’ll be able to keep from touching himself. 

He’s relieved when they climb out of the pool and into the hot tub, because he’s a fucking idiot who forgets about the jets until he’s nearly seated on one, until the sudden shock of heat and pressure on his clit makes him spasm. He makes a noise—he must, but it’s lost to Zayn splashing in and Liam and Niall arguing over whether or not it’s ever acceptable to piss in the pool, and Harry—Harry just hooks his arm over the lip of the tub and drops his head back, closes his eyes on a sigh like he couldn’t care less if Louis gets himself off not two feet away.

“Little kids do it all the time,” Niall’s saying. “I’m telling you, there’s no pool that hasn’t been pissed in.” 

“The water filters out,” Zayn says, “you know that, right?”

Liam snorts. “You say little kids, but I hear _Niall._ ”

“Listen—”

If Louis sits on the bench as he’s meant to, the jets hit his shoulders and lower back, his calves and the arches of his feet, and the water pulsing between his thighs isn’t enough to make him come. He doesn’t think he could, anyway, without rubbing at himself a little, and it’s not something he wants to test out with Zayn and Niall on either side of him, getting heated over pool etiquette, but—his cunt feels swollen, empty in a way that shocks him every time. The fabric of his boxers rides up against it if he moves his hips just right, but the friction is awful and nowhere near enough, no matter how many times he crosses and uncrosses his legs. 

Harry’s grip on the tub has turned his knuckles white. 

Louis breathes in through his mouth and feels a little dizzy. He doesn’t know if it shows, whether he looks as much like the mad end of a pulse as he feels, but he can’t make any sense of what the boys are saying now, too caught up in wondering whether Harry’s hard, and eyeing the distance between them. If he stretched out, he could put a foot to Harry’s cock, rub him off like that. If he got up and slid over, he could settle himself in Harry’s lap and grind on him until they both came. If he had a cock, he could slap it against Harry’s heat flushed cheek before he fed it into his soft, red mouth. 

He doesn’t have a cock, but Harry does, and the backs of Louis’ teeth tingle at the thought of sucking him down. There’s a brief flare of panic at his inability to stop thinking about it; he hasn’t felt this desperate—this out of control—in a long time, but there’s something gone loose and giddy in his chest now and he can’t claw back the front no matter how hard he tries. 

He doesn’t even want to try.

“All right, lads,” he says, loud enough to interrupt their debate. “What’s the consensus on hot tubs? Because I had quite a lot of tea, if you’ll remember.”

 _”No,”_ Zayn says, and twitches like he wants to bodily throw Louis out. “Get the fuck out. Louis, I’m serious. Louis.” 

“You shouldn’t have asked,” Niall tells him wisely. “If you’d just done it, he wouldn’t have ever known.”

Louis doesn’t wait to hear Zayn’s response, splashing him in the face before hauling himself out. His clothes stick uncomfortably to his skin, contour to the shape of this body, but no one’s watching him except Harry, his eyes slits and cheeks red. 

Louis remembers the days they could have entire conversations with just one look, how everything else faded to the background as soon as Harry’s eyes were on him. How everything but his voice turned to static. This isn’t a conversation; they don’t have those anymore. It’s just—need, and Louis would hate himself for it any other day, will probably wake up tomorrow and regret it, but. Not now. 

He steals Liam’s towel because why not, and leaves for the showers without looking back. The air is unreasonably chilly after the heat of the tub, but Louis feels a bit like he’s overheating anyway, like if he fucked his fingers in they’d burn. He makes it past the sauna before he has to stop and lean up against the wall, press his face to the tiles to cool it down. His gut is cramping with want and now that he’s out of the water he can feel how wet he is when he shifts, gone soft and liquid. 

He hears the wet slap of Harry’s feet before he sees him. “What took you so long?”

It can’t have been more than two minutes, but Louis likes the way it makes Harry hiss and fit himself against his back, grind into him like he can’t help it. There are too many clothes between them, and they’re only blocked from view thanks to a few potted plants, but Louis can’t bring himself to do more than spread his legs. 

Harry curses and fists his hands in Louis’ shirt, wringing at it like he wants to pull it off. Louis wants him to. He wants—

“Fucking finish what you started,” he says, the words sticking in his throat. “Don’t wanna wake up like this tomorrow.” 

“Louis,” Harry says, and he sounds wrecked, but Louis doesn’t care to hear it. So he turns around and shoves him into a shower stall, locks the door behind them before yanking his shirt over his head. It gets stuck around his ears, sopping wet as it is, and Louis’ face burns as he finally tugs himself free and throws the sodden mess of fabric at Harry’s feet. 

His hair isn’t any longer as a girl. Louis thought that a blessing, because it made it easier to pass as a boy, as _himself_ , but now he wishes it fell over his shoulders, covered his breasts and the back of his burning neck. He fists his hands at his side and tries not to feel like an idiot, standing there in wet boxers, tits out, waiting for Harry to do something. He lifts a hand to his pants with every intention of taking them off, because why not make his humiliation complete, but Harry moves before he can, pushing into his space so quickly Louis’ head knocks back against the door. 

His mouth is hot, and Louis opens up to it before he can remind himself why he shouldn’t. It’s not so different, kissing Harry as a girl. His tongue feels thicker when Louis draws it into his mouth and sucks on it, but he tastes the same, like chlorine and salt and spit. He’s got both palms flat against the door on either side of Louis’ head, and the only point they’re touching is their mouths, except when Louis shifts forward and his nipples brush against Harry’s chest, catch on his wet shirt so roughly it hurts. 

“Fuck,” Louis gasps, and tears his mouth away. Harry ducks down to latch onto his neck, bites at his throat, but his hands are still up against the door and Louis doesn’t know _why_. “Fucking _touch_ me,” he says, and grabs his hand when Harry doesn’t move, drags it to his chest. He hadn’t known he’d still feel this way as a girl, this open and receptive and raw, but it’s as if this body recognizes Harry too, knows him in a way Louis didn’t think two people could. It feels just as fucking awful as it always does, how badly he wants it, and Louis has to swallow around the lump in his throat before he can talk. 

“You don’t have to be nice to me,” he says into Harry’s mouth, and feels petty satisfaction at the way he stiffens. “I’m a sure thing, yeah? I’m still—it’s me. You don’t need to _ask._ ”

Harry’s breath hits Louis’ upper lip in short, uneven puffs. His eyes are closed. “You need to tell me what you want.” 

“What, you can’t figure it out?” Frustration makes Louis’ voice snide. It’s not so different, he thought, being with Harry this way. Except maybe it is. “That’s never stopped you before. D’you need directions, or—”

He’s kissed before he can finish, hard enough that he has to bring a hand up and clutch at Harry’s shoulders, strain up into it. Harry’s tongue fucks into his mouth quick and messy, this edge of teeth, but he’s gentle when he brushes his knuckles over Louis’ ribs. Louis had braced for the cold metal of his rings, but they’re body warm when they nudge up against the underside of his breasts, when Harry cups one and sighs into his mouth. He thumbs over a nipple, pinches it, and Louis’ knees nearly buckle; he’s sensitive there even as a boy, and this body magnifies it to the point of pain. Harry kisses the bolt of his jaw and makes a sound like he knows, kneads at him so roughly Louis gasps, torn between pushing him away and asking for more. 

“You’ve thought about this,” he says instead, biting at Harry’s mouth, scrabbling for the upper ground. He can feel the heat of Harry’s cock through his trunks, pressed up against Louis’ belly. “Haven’t you? What you’d do to me, if I let you.” 

“Every day,” Harry murmurs, “for the last three years.”

Louis stomach swoops, and he scoffs to hide it. “I said you didn’t need to sweet talk me.” 

He can feel Harry’s lazy shrug, the smile he presses into Louis’ neck before biting at the spot his Adam’s apple should be. His hands drop from Louis’ tits to his waist, flatten out over the softest part of his belly before sliding back to the base of his spine, trailing over the waistband of his boxers. “It’s not like I can just turn it off,” he says slowly, like Louis cares about anything but the patterns his fingers are tracing into his skin. “When you’re naturally this charming—”

“This much of a twat,” Louis corrects, and tries to quiet the riot in his chest. The worst thing about Harry is that he can say these things—look you in the eye and say these things and mean them, but Louis has come to learn just because Harry believes it doesn’t mean it’s true. No matter how badly Louis wants it to be. “I could do without the full Harry Styles Experience, all right? Just make me come.” 

Harry sucks in a slow breath and Louis is tempted to just grab his hand and guide it between his legs, but he thinks if he lets go of Harry’s shoulders he might slide straight to the ground. His cunt’s throbbing, heart thumping against his ribcage like it wants to bruise itself, and Harry ducks his head and nuzzles into Louis’ breasts, presses an open-mouthed kiss to the valley in between. “Your heart’s beating so fast.” 

“Oh, well done,” Louis manages to say, pretends his voice doesn’t crack when Harry takes a nipple into his mouth and sucks so strongly Louis’ back bows. He’s taking deep, steady pulls, like he’s _nursing_ on him, and Louis claws at the back of his neck and thinks he could come from this, just this, given the chance. But he wants Harry’s hands, his long, clever fingers, so he takes in a shallow, shaky breath and continues, “Dunno what I’d do without you around to state the obvious. Next you’re going to tell me how wet I am.”

Harry bites him, hard enough to make Louis jerk, but his hand slips from his stomach when Louis sucks in a breath, slides underneath the waistband of his boxers until it's fit between Louis’ thighs, skin on skin. He just cups him, the way he’d cupped Louis’ cock when it was spent and sensitive, unbearably gentle, and it leaves Louis so disoriented that for a second he doesn’t know what body he’s in. Then Harry drags his middle finger up between the folds of his cunt, tentative, the way you might dip a toe in to test the water, and muffles a low, pained sound in Louis’ skin. 

Louis drags him up into a kiss, because he has to. It’s sloppy, because Harry’s not doing much more than panting into his mouth, and he looks as shaken as Louis feels. He’s biting his bottom lip like he does when he’s about to come, and the thought of that—that just touching Louis is enough to get him so close, makes Louis fist a hand in his hair and yank. 

Harry’s eyes flutter closed, and his mouth drops open. He’s grinding his cock against Louis’ belly now, in slow deliberate circles that won’t give him any relief, and the tip of his finger catches on Louis’ clit, right where he’s painfully sensitive. “Harry,” Louis chokes out, twitching his hips away helplessly. “Not so—not so rough.” 

Harry stills and leans their foreheads together before starting to stroke him again, sliding his fingers through the slick mess of Louis’ cunt, lazy like they’ve got all the time in the world. He’s looking at him now, in that intent, curious way of his, and it takes Louis more effort than it should to meet his eyes. “Did it hurt?”

“No,” Louis says, but it had, a little. “I don’t know. I can’t—I can’t tell. Sometimes. What feels good.” 

Getting himself off the first time had been an experience; the kind of frustration that comes with not being able to decode your own body’s signals is one Louis thought might lead to him actually ripping his hair out. He’d cried, instead, but then that’s almost as bad. Harry doesn’t know—no one does—but having him here now, thumbing cautiously at Louis’ clit with that frown on his face, like this is serious—Louis almost wants to tell him. “You can—harder. A bit.” 

“Yeah?” The insistent pressure of his thumb makes Louis rise up onto his toes, gasping. He’s touching his clit through the hood now, in slick little circles because Louis is that sopping wet, and it drives needles of sensation into him, made sharper when Harry finally fucks a finger in. “Oh,” he says, and Louis echoes the sound, because his finger is thicker, longer than he’d expected. Louis can feel the bump of his knuckles, his ring braced against his opening, the ridge of it. “You’re—fuck, you’re tight.” 

Louis feels so full on just his finger that he’s not sure he’d even be able to take his cock. It would hurt, probably. He still wants it. “Harry. Harry—”

Harry slides another finger in and swallows his gasp. “It’s like—you could be a virgin.” 

Louis isn’t, thank fuck, but he doesn’t miss the way Harry shivers at the thought, fingers him with a bit more urgency. “Would that get you off?” Louis asks, and bears his hips down so the heel of Harry’s hand presses up against his clit. Harry’s mouth looks sore and used, like Louis’ had his cock down his throat, and he opens for him, easy, when Louis kisses him. “Yeah, it would. You’d like that, being someone’s first.”

Harry makes an aborted noise and pulls away just enough to say, “I was yours.” 

Louis’ heart stutters, and he knows it shows on his face. So he says, “yeah,” and kisses Harry again, sighs soft and shaky into his mouth as he starts to come. “You were mine.” 

Coming as a girl is like nothing else. He’d been too panicked to enjoy it properly the first time—or the second, or the third—but by now he’s learned how to go loose and let it wash over him, one wave after another, head underwater and not bothered with air. Harry kisses him through it, and that does—something, intensifies it, drags it out for longer, until he’s a twitchy, oversensitive mess. Harry’s fingers are still inside him, and Louis can feel his body milking them, can’t help but wonder what it’d feel like to come on a cock—on Harry’s—and the idea of it makes his toes curl, suddenly desperate. 

Harry slips his fingers out before pumping them in again, just once. He’s breathing hard, working at his cock with his other hand. “You think you could, again?” 

“I don’t know,” Louis says, but the thought of it makes the aftershocks stronger, so much so that he starts thinking he should’ve said yes. It’s hard to breathe, harder yet when he ducks his head down to watch the muscles in Harry’s arm strain as he pulls himself off. He hasn’t even bothered to shove down his shorts, and all Louis can see of his cock is the shiny, wet head, and he wants badly to suck on it. He wants—“D’you still want to fuck me?”

“Shut up,” Harry grits out, and he’s gone all red, eyes glassy. Precome blurts from his slit and Louis’ mouth waters. Then he pulls his hand from Louis’ boxers, slicks his cock up with Louis’ come, and Louis feels a little jolt like another orgasm hit him low in the gut. 

“Fuck, Harry,” he says, and he sounds wrecked even to his own ears. Harry’s cock is so wet now; the slide of his hand must be slippery and perfect. Louis did that, and he thinks he can feel his own, absent cock twitch in sympathy, like a terrible phantom ache. “Harry, I’m serious.” 

“Stop it,” Harry says, and fits their mouths together, kisses him so urgently Louis has to bring both hands up to cradle his jaw. “I want,” he says, “I want to kiss you,” so Louis lets him. He looks like he’s hurting, eyes squeezed shut, and Louis waits for the moment his face goes slack, the instant he starts to come, and holds him through it. 

He slumps right down on Louis after, boneless. If they were on a bed he’d already be halfway to asleep, but Louis is jittery still, like maybe he wants Harry’s fingers in him again, like maybe he jumped the gun when he decided one orgasm was enough. Harry’s hair has started to dry, curling wildly, and Louis noses into it and presses his mouth to his ear when he says, “I meant it.” 

Harry shudders and the hands he slides up Louis’ back are sticky with their come. “Louis.” 

“I want—that. I want you to.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and pulls back to look at him. His mouth is so red it must be sore. “Tell me again tomorrow.”

Louis flinches before he can stop himself. He can still play it off; Harry would let him get away it, if he affected ignorance and said, _what’s that supposed to mean?_ But Louis knows what he means, and Harry knows he knows, so what is the fucking point of dancing around each other even after the music’s stopped. 

Girl orgasms tend to make him practical. So he bites at Harry’s jaw, says, “fuck you,” and doesn’t even mind very much when it comes out playful. Affectionate. “I won’t.” 

“I know,” Harry says, and his mouth quirks up. 

Louis pokes his cheek where it dimples, and then slaps him gently. “Never thought I’d see the day Harry Styles passed on pussy.” 

“Don’t think I have,” Harry says, and lifts the hand he had in Louis’ cunt to his mouth, sucks his fingers clean with such exaggerated care that Louis laughs helplessly even as his gut tightens with want. Then Harry waggles his eyebrows and Louis has to shove him away before pulling him back in, close enough to kiss. 

“Not tomorrow," Louis whispers, and Harry smiles like he's heard everything he didn't say.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](http://eleadore.tumblr.com/)/[twitter](https://twitter.com/eleadore), thanks for reading!


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